


An Inward Treasure - Intimacy

by Fyre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Georgian Period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some random romantic interludes for the Duke and Duchess of Rutherglen from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/409866/chapters/679810">An Inward Treasure</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Play

**Author's Note:**

> So, these children won't stop being randy little torags. Send help.

Jamie was woken by his wife.

It was hardly an infrequent occurrence, but it was less frequent for him to wake without her lips on his. She liked to wake him with kisses, and if that failed, she had been known to dip her washcloth into the pitcher, lift the blanket and toss the sodden bundle onto his bare skin.

This was not one of those occasions.

There was a shapeless lump moving under the blankets and he peered at it drowsily, wondering if perhaps she had become tangled in her sleep.

Then her lips touched his knee.

It was only sheer bloody minded restraint that stopped him from thrashing in surprise. No matter how astonished he was by his wife, striking her in the face with his knee was not the best way to start any morning.

“Belle?” His voice came out hoarser than he expected.

Her fingers brushed against his calf, and her lips moved up.

Jamie stared at the canopy above his head, his fingers fisting into the bedding. “M’dear, you needn’t…” His words trailed off into a groan when her perfect little teeth scraped at his thigh and her other hand tugged on the end of his nightshirt. “By God, woman…”

He felt the giggle, too muffled to be heard by smothering blankets and sheets, and he wanted nothing more than to see her.

“Belle,” he began again, pressing his head back against the pillow as her lips moved higher as his nightshirt was drawn up. “Belle, let me see you.”

All at once, she wasn’t touching him at all, and the meaning was clear.

Jamie groaned again. “Damn you, woman!”

There was a reproachful brush of lips against his inner thigh, and he forgot all about being angry at her absence from his arms. The heap of blankets shifted and he shuddered hungrily when he felt her sprawl between his splayed limbs. Her nightdress was gone. All he could feel was warm, bare flesh.

She wriggled up until she was nestled between his thighs and breathless from the effort of struggling about under the blankets. She breathed out small, rapid breaths, warm, so warm on his skin, and if he hadn’t been burning for her already, she would have lit the taper and set him ablaze.

Breath was scorching enough, but then her lips followed and Jamie cried out in sweet agony at the barest of touches. Her fingers brushed his hips, down and pinned his thighs to the bed, in a gentle but merciless grip. Even without words, her Grace knew how to speak to him.

Jamie flung and arm over his eyes, his other hand pawing at the sheets.

“Belle,” he groaned, every muscle in his body wire-taut.

As unschooled as her mouth was, he knew he would have no other. She teased with her tongue and her teeth and lips. When he remained still and obedient, only quivering under her ministrations, her small hands slid back up, one to wrap fast about him, the other caressing his belly in sweeping circles.

His breath was coming fast and heavy and he felt sound catch in his throat when she ran the ball of her thumb over the head of him. She had asked him to teach her, one night months before, and she knew what he liked best, and when her tongue followed her thumb, he cried out her name, ragged and choked.

Her lips smiled about him as she took him to her, and her hair cascaded across his hips and belly, as cruel and merciless as her hands and how could he do aught but move against her, when she teased him so?

Her lips vanished in an instant and he almost wept at the sudden absence until the blankets were pushed back and his pink-cheeked and tousled wife braced herself over him, her hands flanking his ribs, her eyes shining.

“Would you have me, Jamie?” she asked, her tongue sweeping her lower lip.

He reached for her, pulling her over him, near tumbling her against his chest. She laughed, her hands leaping to frame his head and tilted her head.

“Well?”

“Every hour of every day I breathe, your Grace,” he whispered, pressing his hips up imploringly against hers. “As long as you’ll have me.”

She nuzzled the tip of her nose to his, then caught her lower lip between her teeth as she pressed back and down, her warmth brushing against his hardness. “When I say,” she whispered, her cheeks flushing.

“When you say,” he agreed hoarsely, his hands caressing her thighs, her hips, her ribs, up over her arms, his eyes drinking in her face, watching, waiting, as she brushed herself against him, gently as a breath, over and over, until thought was gone and all he could see was her, her eyes, her lips, her love.

She released a quivering breath. “Now.”

His hands, at her hips, guided her down, and he watched her rapturously as their bodies became one. Her head fell forward and the sound in her throat near undid him as she sank herself down.

“Jamie…”

Panting, run ragged, near run mad with want of her, he nodded, shaking, “Aye, love. Aye.”

She tossed her head back, her hair a cascade over her shoulders, and smiled. “You’re mine,” she breathed as she rolled her hips. Jamie’s voice dried to a hoarse whimper and he clung to her hips, slipping one hand down, easing his fingertips between their bodies, so intimately locked together.

She whimpered too as he caressed and teased, stroking over and over with trembling hands as she brought herself closer and closer, and him with her. She was shivering, her body trembling, and small sounds of pleasure until she fell forward over him, and claimed his lips only then.

“Now,” she whispered against his lips.

They were tangled in one another’s arms at once, tumbling over and over, both groaning and laughing and striving to complete the other first. Her hands were nimble, but his were well-placed, and she gave a laughing cry of pleasure, her legs wrapping about him as he drove her against the bed again and again. Her nails sank into his back and her lips were at his ear, and she whispered, “I love you”, and he came apart, bound up in her, body and mind.


	2. Chastised

Jamie was not inclined to paranoia.

He was in his own home of Westfell with his wife and children all safely ensconced in their chambers. Their guests from London were in the far wing, well out of the way and unlikely to cause any problems. Even Bay had managed to behave himself appropriately.

And yet, the moment he walked into his chamber, a blindfold was whipped around his eyes, and the doors slammed closed behind him. He heard the ominous click of the key in the lock.

“Belle?”

“Hush, Jamie.” There was a tone in his wife’s voice that he very seldom heard, but it was enough to make his mouth curve up in anticipation. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, warm through the fine silk of his shirt. “I must say I am disappointed.”

“Aye, m’dear? And why might that be?”

Her hands slid down his back, then around his ribs, loosening the buttons of his waistcoat one by one. He knew better than to interrupt her or stop her. “You recall the arrangement we came to before Blanche and her husband arrived?”

He grinned. “Indeed, m’dear. I recall well enough.”

“There was a promise of respect and good behaviour, was there not?” she murmured close to his ear.

“Lud, woman! Do you expect me to remember all the details? You were quite unclothed! It was very diverting!”

Her arms tightened around him and she pressed against his back. Jamie stifled a profanity as his wife’s body pressed to his back, nary an inch between them. Unclad. Or clad in naught but silk. “You are going to pay attention, my Lord Husband,” she murmured, “Unclothed or not.”

“Belle,” he groaned.

At once, her hold loosened and he could not feel any of her about him. “Attention, husband,” she murmured.

“Aye, your Grace,” he said, turning his head, trying to track her movement. Her footfalls were demmed near silent, the tread of his little cat on velvet paws. There was no sound of silk, no sound at all, and that made his blood run all the hotter.

A hand touched his waistcoat, another button sliding free. “Are you listening, husband?”

“Intently, your Grace,” he breathed, inching his hands forward, but she was like a wisp in the wind, gone before he could catch her.

“You listen with your hands?” she murmured from his other side. He could hear the breathlessness in her voice, her own eagerness.

“I would listen with every part,” he said, stepping towards the sound of her voice.

A small hand pressed to the middle of his chest. “Not until you have learned well,” she said, her smile audible. “Do you remember what was said?”

He searched his memory wildly. It had been two weeks before, and all he could think of was the fact that she had been bathing and stood up before the fire, glistening and wet, and he had gawped like a stunned choirboy and said…

“Zooks, Belle! I did not mean it!”

“Alas, that it was said and it was heard, and so I shall hold you to it,” she said, laughing. All at once, she pressed against his chest and the last of the buttons of his waistcoat came loose. “I may not be able to put you upon my knee, but I shall make the best of matters.”

He managed to catch her, wicked sylph that she was, before she squirmed free and darted away. “Belle!”

“Remove your shirt, husband, and waistcoat,” she said in a firm voice only slightly undercut by giggles.

He scowled, tugging his waistcoat off and dropped it behind him. He reached for his cravat.

“No, dearest,” she said, before he could touch it. “Leave that.” There was mischief in her tone. “You may need it.”

“Need it?” he asked as lightly as he could, as he shed his shirt.

“Mm.” Suddenly she was behind him, dragging the shirt from his arms, and her voice was in his ear. “You may need something to bite down upon.” He hissed, but it turned inwards when her lips pressed hot between his bare shoulders. “Now, beloved,” she breathed against his naked back, “will you listen?”

He wanted to reply, but all he could see in his mind’s eye was his little wife, naked and kissing him so. A low moan escaped him when her nails dragged across his ribs, heat surging through him like wildfire.

“I asked a question, husband,” she murmured, nuzzling his hair where it fell loose at his nape.

“Yes!” he gasped out as she spread her warm palms against his sides, slid them inward, down his belly. “Good God, woman!”

Her hands leapt away, leaving him untouched once more.

“Manners, Jamie,” she murmured, circling in front of him. “You’ve failed me once today in front of our guests. Will you fail me now?”

“Belle…” he began.

“Are you listening, husband?” she murmured in a sing-song voice. “Manners.”

“Yes, your Grace,” he breathed, then breathed again, more deeply when her hands caught his, small and soft and warm and hers.

“Then follow and obey, love,” she whispered, leading him deeper into the room.

His senses were all turned around with his sight stolen away and his love leading him so teasingly onwards. She brought him to a halt and lifted his hands to kiss the knuckles of each in turn, then place his palms against the back of a very familiar chair.

His knees trembled beneath him remembering a night so many months ago in that very chair, with the very cravat he wore now. He always wore it in company, for he knew she would look at it and smile, and know he belonged to her in every way.

The cravat was tugged, though he could not tell from which direction, and he clasped his hands tight upon the back of the chair.

“There’s no need to silence me, your Grace,” he whispered.

Her hands pressed to his inner arms, pushing them a little wider apart, enough to allow her to slip between him and the chair. Her lips brushed his so softly. “Is that so, husband?” she whispered. “Will you hold your peace?”

“Anything your Grace wishes,” he whispered, trying to steal a kiss.

Her fingertips brushed his lips. “This, beloved,” she murmured, “hinges on your good behaviour.” She kissed his jaw, then his throat, and he shuddered as her teeth scraped his neck as they snared the cravat and dragged it away.

“Aye,” he breathed, his voice catching as the tip of her nose brushed ticklishly against his throat. “As you wish, your Grace.”

She giggled then and all at once, the space between his arms was empty. “Stay still, Jamie,” she said, draping the cravat over the wrist of his right hand. “If you move, or are in any way disobedient, I will be terribly displeased.”

“What have you in mind, your Grace?” he asked. She was tying a bow in his cravat, tying his wrist. His breath caught as the cravat brushed the other wrist and her fingers skimmed the curve where hand met arm.

“You will learn,” she breathed, tilting his left hand to kiss the fine flesh on the inside of his wrist. Her breath was warm and light, and Jamie almost growled with hunger. Her fingers were deft and light, twining the cravat about his wrist. “In silence.” Her fingertips trailed along his arm to his shoulder. “Do you understand?”

He tilted his head to kiss her fingers. “Yes, your Grace.”

The back of her fingers brushed his cheek, turning his face away. “That is movement, dearest,” she murmured. “Do you wish me to be vexed?”

“Of course not, your Grace,” he said, shivering pleasantly as she moved behind him once more. She was close enough that he could feel the brush of her breasts to his back, fuller now than they had been. Motherhood had been kind to her delicate figure, with such warmth and softness and it took all his willpower not to sway back against her.

“Good boy,” she murmured against his shoulder.

Her arms slipped about his waist to the buttons of his breeches and rested there, light enough that he could barely feel them, but also close enough that he could not ignore them. And she did not move. No part of her moved. All he could feel was the soft rush of her breath with each exhalation against the bare skin of his shoulders.

His own breathing grew heavy, with the thought of those nimble fingers, her warm lips, her breathing as quick as his own, and has she any doubts of the affect she had on him, her hands would tell her otherwise as he rose with eagerness to her waiting touch.

Her teeth nipped at his shoulder. “Should I consider that movement,” she whispered, “you naughty rogue?”

“Lud, Belle,” Jamie groaned, his head falling forward to hang between his arms. “Do you intent to torment me all night?”

One button on his breeches was undone. “Perhaps,” she murmured sweetly, nuzzled the nape of his neck. It loosed his breeches enough to let her delve her fingers within, trailing around the inside of the waistband. “Perhaps you want me to stop?”

The sound he made could only be called a whine. “Belle, your Grace, love… please…”

She giggled. “But we haven’t punished you yet,” she said, propping her chin on his shoulder. “Tell me, Jamie, what should I use?”

“Anything you please,” he groaned, shuddering as she curled her fingers against his hip, dragging her nails over the jut of his hipbone.

“A belt then?” she whispered, her voice caressing the word. “Or a cane? You have been a naughty boy, Jamie, and I must make sure you get what you deserve.”

“Belle…” he protested half-heartedly, for as much as he loathed his childhood beatings, the thought of his dainty little wife standing over him with a rod of authority, chastising him, punishing him…

Her other hand undid another button, and also slid within the waist of his breeches, slowly easing them down. “Upon bare flesh, I think,” she murmured, her own voice trembling deliciously in anticipation.

His legs almost buckled beneath him for as his breeches descended, so too did she. He felt the warm breath trail down his spine, and his hips jerked wildly when her lips brushed feather light across his tailbone.

“Ah…” she said sternly.

“Forgive me, your Grace!” he gasped, but his response seemed to intrigue her for her lips brushed again and the shudders tore through the length of his body, his blood boiling for her. A delicate dart of her tongue a little lower made him throw his head back, another pitiful whine catching in his throat.

She giggled, her hands sliding back up the front of his legs, drifting in teasing circles across his calves, his knees, her thumbs drawing across the back of each knee and making him shake to the core, then up, up as she rose, until her hands rested briefly, warmly against his hips, then slid down and just as briefly, squeezed his backside.

There was stillness, a perfect, shivering stillness, and Jamie’s heart was thundering in his ears. He wanted her to touch him. He wanted to hear her laughter. He wanted to see her face and taste her kisses. He wanted. He just wanted. Her, all of her.

A small, slender hand smacked him sharply on the arse.

He almost bit through his lip.

Somewhere behind him, Belle giggled. “Good boy,” she said, her laughter warming him, as much as her hand had his backside. Her hand skimmed over the offended flesh, the tingle of heat turning delicious at her delicate touch, and Jamie groaned.

Her other hand caressed his hip, then held fast, giving him but a moment to draw breath before her dainty hand struck him again. The heat sang through him and was only made worse - or so much better - when she dragged her nails where her hand had struck.

“Oh God above!” Jamie whimpered.

“Profanities?” she gasped, laughingly, and smacked him firmly again. “Jamie, Jamie, my love. Have you so many sins at your door?”

“Lud, yes,” he whispered, kneading at the back of the chair with fingers he could feel bruising. “I am a demmed wretched person, your Grace. I have lied.” A warm, stinging swat soothed by a soft palm. “Cheated.” Another, sharper. “Lud… I-I cannot think…”

She raked her nails across the skin, drawing the faintest of gasps from his throat, and murmured against his nape. “Such ill manners, I recall.”

“Demmed ill…” he agreed, his legs shivering beneath him, as her palm struck him so resoundingly that the sound echoed. “My mouth is a haven of profanity. Hell. Bugger. Bastard.” With each warming blow, his voice was growing more and more ragged and his cock throbbed unbearably. “Fuck!”

Her left hand ghosted over his hip, and so close to his hardness that he was hard-pressed not to move to her. His chest was heaving and his head spun. Her fingers brushed against him and almost brought him apart at once.

“If I did not know better,” his wife whispered, all innocent wickedness. “I would almost believe you enjoyed this.”

“You,” he groaned as her fingers traced intricate patterns on the reddened flesh of his arse. “I enjoy you.”

He almost sobbed aloud when suddenly, she was no longer touching him, and just as suddenly, she scattered little kisses across his abused flesh, trailing them over his backside, to his hip, her hair trailing in silky cascades down his thighs, and he whined and trembled and her teeth scraped across his hip bone and lips brushed the flat plane of his belly.

“Belle, love…”

“Hush,” she whispered, then took him in her mouth.

It was almost shameful how quickly he was spent, but when her hands squeezed his hips, and her nails raked his buttocks and she didn’t just lick but bite just enough and groan low in her throat, he was spent, his hips twitching of their own volition.

His legs still shook, his hands ached, but he remained where he was, trembling, panting, shivering from head to toe, knowing she was kneeling at his feet, lips swollen, spattered with the stains of him, naked and beautiful and he couldn’t see her. 

Her hands touched his hips again, then his waist, then his chest, then his shoulders, and the blindfold was drawn away. His wife, smiling and radiant, kissed the tip of his nose.

Jamie lifted his head, breathing raggedly. “Lud, I love you, Belle,” he panted.

“I know,” she said, smoothing his sweat-sodden hair back from his face. She leaned a little closer and brushed her lips against his. “Now, Jamie, perhaps next time you’ll remember to behave?”

He stared at her. “Aye,” he said. “I’ll remember what’s in store if I don’t.”

After all, it would be terrible if he insulted Blanche’s husband even more than he had at dinner, and had to be punished all over again.

Belle met his eyes with a knowing smile. “I’m sure you will.”


	3. Discipline

The carriage rattled through the streets, splashing through puddles.

Belle glanced out at the rain that was still falling. 

“The evening was barely begun,” Jamie grumbled, huddled in the corner opposite her. She had spread her skirts wide, making it demmed clear that he wasn’t welcome to sit beside her in his present state. 

“The evening had progressed quite far enough,” Belle murmured, curling her fingers around the edge of her cloak and drawing it more snugly about her. The colour had barely faded from her face, and she wondered just how much wine Jamie had imbibed while she had been in the drawing room with the other ladies. 

It had only been a small gathering, some two dozen or so people, but each of them was titled and noble and had heard everything her fool of a husband had said.

Jamie subsided in the opposite corner with a petted lip and his coat wrapped about him. All at once, he started to snore, and Belle sighed.

London did not become her.

It never had.

She liked to be at home with her family, not making a show of stature to ensure that they would be left in peace for another six months once the season was over. She missed the children. They had stayed in Westfell with Regina, too small to be presented in court, and too big to be brought to the London house. It was not a house for children. 

Jamie missed home too, and she knew that was part of the reason for his outburst, but if he was to drink himself silly each and every time they ventured out, his reputation would be sullied for quite a different reason. It was one thing to be rude and abrupt. It was another entirely to be a drunk and run at the mouth.

She knew she had to make a point that he could not behave so, but there was only one language that Jamie truly understood. 

A man had been sent ahead to let the house know they were on their way.

She watched out the window as the countryside flew by and gradually turned into the city, and finally into Scotland Yard. She didn’t choose to wake Jamie, letting the jolt of the carriage stopping almost jar him from his seat. He stirred groggily, sitting up.

“We’re home?”

“We are,” she said without glancing at him as she stepped down. Henry bowed his head solemnly. “Is my bath drawn, Henry?”

“Yes, your Grace,” he said. “As requested. His Grace?”

“His Grace may require some assistance on the stairs,” she replied, drawing her gloves from her hands. “Have him brought up to the bedroom. Set him in his chair.” She smiled as sweetly as she could. “I will take good care of him.”

By the time Jamie was hauled into the room and deposited in his chair, Belle had removed her cloak and was gazing out of the window. She let the curtain fall back in place and turned to smile at the maid who had just entered to help her disrobe for the bath, the tub steaming between her husband and the fire.

“We shan’t be needing anything else tonight, Katherine.”

The maid bobbed uncertainly, eyeing Belle’s dress. “As you say, your Grace,” she said, backing out of the door. 

Belle crossed the floor and turned the key in the lock, closing them in.

“So it’s to be that kind of night, hmm?” Jamie murmured. He was sprawled down in the chair, hopelessly dishevelled, his cravat undone. His coat had been abandoned somewhere between the front door and the bedroom. He looked up at her with a doting fondness that would normally make her weak at the knees, but she was still smarting from his words, and her own smile did not rise to meet his. “A bath before bed?”

She circled around in front of him. “Perhaps,” she said. She took a handful of her skirt, and drew it up, lifting her slippered foot to brace it on the edge of the chair. “My stocking, husband.”

He beamed at her, and she almost sighed, wondering if he really had no notion of what he had said. He unlaced her garter with surprisingly deft fingers, then drew her stocking down, his fingertips tracing down her leg. He looked up at her, as his fingers curved down the back of her calf. 

“Shoe?”

She lifted her foot enough for him to unbuckle her shoe and drop it to the floor, then he peeled her stocking off.

“Good,” she murmured, holding out her hand for it.

The other leg was subject to the same treatment, only he leaned closer and pressed a kiss to her knee as he bared it, and for a moment, her intent wavered. Only for a moment.

A lesson had to be learned. 

She held out her other hand for the stocking, letting her skirts sweep back down and cover her bare legs. Jamie made a grumbling sound of protest, which repeated when she lowered her foot from the chair.

“Close your eyes,” she murmured.

He obeyed.

Of course he obeyed. He always did.

“Place your hands on the arms,” she said quietly, watching him. He curled his fingers around the ends of the arms, slow and deliberate, and she knew he was keeping himself from reaching for her instead by will alone. She draped one of her stockings over each of his arms, and she saw him twitch in the realisation of her intentions.

“Belle…” he murmured, his voice thickened with drink and desire.

She bit her lip, then tugged his cravat from his collar. It was warm between her hands, and she leaned closer and tied it around his mouth. He didn’t fight her, even with his eyes closed, so she did not pull it tight, but enough to silence him. She didn’t need words from him, not just now. 

She knelt down then, between his knees, and felt him shift. Touching him as little as she could, she bound one wrist then the other to the arms of the chair, securing him, holding him fast. It would take a skilled man indeed to free himself. 

She rose, and stood, gazing at him.

“Look at me, Jamie,” she said.

His eyes opened and he looked up at her.

She drew back from him, closer to the bathtub, glancing down at the clear, scented water.

“I’m very disappointed in you, husband,” she said quietly. She didn’t look at him as she looked down, unhooking the fastenings of the dress. “You have behaved… dreadfully.” Hook after hook was loosed, and in a moment, the dress opened about her like a flower. Only then did she look at him. He was staring at her in confusion, but not without desire. “You have… embarrassed me.”

He shook his head urgently, but she sighed, pushing her skirts down over her hips. His eyes flicked down, following them, then back to her, a pleading expression on his face.

Belle gathered her dress, draping it over the trousseau at the end of the bed, then returned to her husband, bound where he was, and rested her hands on the back of the chair, gazing at him. “So you do not listen any more than you think?”

He struggled against the gag, rubbing it against his shoulder, trying to dislodge it.

Belle reached behind his head, grabbing the knot. “No,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to hear you just now.” She released him and stepped back, her fingers working at the fastenings of her undergarments. “You won’t be allowed to touch tonight, husband.”

He whimpered like a kicked hound, but she stood her ground, shedding her corset, leaving her in her chemise and pantaloons. 

“Do you remember what you said, Jamie?” she murmured, drawing loose each lace of the chemise, until it hung open and his gaze drifted. It returned soon enough, but she knew his attention was not utterly hers yet. She put out her hand, tilting his chin up, making him look her in the eyes. “That I was as common as dirt compared to them, wasn’t it?”

Jamie’s eyes widened, and finally, he realised just how severely he had erred. He shook his head vehemently.

She stroked a finger along as his cheek. “You thought I couldn’t hear, I know,” she said solemnly. “But the doors are not as thick as you might think, and you were quite loud.” Belle stepped back. “And now, you see. I am… quite cross.”

Jamie tugged against the bonds, making a low, imploring sound in his throat.

She raised a hand, gesturing for silence. “No,” she said. “Apologies will not suffice at present. I wish to bathe.”

It was cruelty, she knew, turning her back on him and letting the chemise slip from her arms to pool at her feet. She heard the low groan, and unlaced her pantaloons, letting them fall too, leaving her bare before him. 

She still wore her jewels, and turned, knowing full-well that she was silhouetted against the glow of the fire, gold sparkling at her throat as she raised her hands and undid the clasp of her necklace. She heard his breathing grow staggered, and extended her hand to drop the necklace into his lap.

His arms were straining against his bonds, and she deigned to look at him only briefly.

“You can wait, love,” she said. “A lady must make her ablutions while the water is hot.”

She stepped into the tub delicately, lifting one foot then the other. The water was just the right side of hot, and she folded down with a small, soft sigh. A sponge - heavy with water - was sunk in the tub and she lifted it, dragging it across her chest, letting her head fall back with a satisfied moan.

She heard the creak of the leather of Jamie’s chair, of the wood groaning, and she opened her eyes and looked at him. His eyes were on her face, imploring, but his body was speaking of demands that were naught to do with apology.

She felt colour warm her cheeks.

Even after half a dozen years of marriage, he could still look at her and set her blood aflame.

She forced her attention back to her own body, knowing that this was not a night for shared pleasure. He had done her wrong. She tilted her head back and squeezed the sponge against her throat, letting the water stream down over her shoulders and breasts.

From the sounds Jamie was making, he was both enjoying and dismayed by her display, and that was her intent entirely. 

The sponge dragged downwards and she bit her lip as she dragged it over one breast, the texture coarse and rough. Over the crackle of the flames and the rush of her own blood in her ears, she could hear Jamie’s breathing growing evermore ragged.

Even now, it still felt wicked to cover her other breast with her wet hand, teasing with slick fingertips. She could almost imagine the heat of her husband’s gaze on her, and she leaned back in the tub, resting her head against the rim, as she slipped her hand downwards, out of his line of sight. 

She wasn’t sure which of them whimpered first: she when her questing fingers found her centre or he when her eyes fluttered shut and her mouth opened in a trembling gasp. The sponge skittered from her grip and she clutched the edge of the bathtub, as she pressed her hips up towards her hand. 

It was shameless to touch herself so, but she knew he was watching, and she knew that he would be half-mad with desire, and she whimpered again, the sound sharp against her tongue, as she pushed her fingers deep, the heel of her hand pressing just… just so. Just there.

The edge of the bathtub was pressed hard against her nape, her feet slipping on the bottom of the tub, and she whined softly, again, keening, as she moved her fingers in and out slowly, mimicking the stroke of her husband’s hand or his… his manhood. Her hips were twitching into her touch and her other hand was slipping on the edge of the tub.

She dared a glance at him and it was like being caught in the eyes of the hunter. His gaze was fixed on her face, and his chest was rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes dragged downwards and she caught her breath at the swell in his breeches, his desire, which made her heart race that little bit faster.

She returned her eyes to his, holding them, letting him see the heat in her eyes, the hunger, the rising pleasure that had flushed her cheeks and left her breath whispering between her lips in tiny, breathless gasps. He held her gaze, leaning forwards as far as his bonds would allow, nodding, encouraging, and she pushed her fingers deeper, pressed there, over, over, over…

The thin, high sound that escaped her as pleasure crashed over her was lost in the splash of the water in the tub, her legs slipping as her feet skittered on the bottom. She was breathless, trembling, her arm hooked over the side of the tub the only thing to prevent her from sinking deeper into the water.

She looked to Jamie, panting, and found him panting as heavily as she, his hair wild around his face, his teeth clenched around his cravat. Were he loose, he would have her abed and devour her alive, she knew. 

A lesson.

She breathed deeply. 

He had a lesson to learn.

She drew the hand from twixt her thighs, lifting her from the water, and held his gaze as she ran her fingertips along her lips. Her tongue darted out, and she could taste herself and the water. The sound Jamie made bordered on feral and he tugged against the restraints. 

“Be still,” she whispered hoarsely.

He bared his teeth, but obeyed, watching her like a half-starved animal. 

It took her some moments to gather her buttery limbs into some manner that might hold her upright. It was no use to try to look bold and graceful when one’s knees were still knocking from excess of pleasure. All the same, Jamie gazed at her wet, sleek body as if she were Venus herself rising from the waves.

Leaving shimmering footprints on the wooden floor, she approached him where he was bound, and lifted trembling hands to loosen his cravat from his lips.

“Belle,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Belle, forgive me.”

“You would tumble in the dirt?” she said, her voice light, but her expression grave.

He shook his head. “Belle, I did not finish,” he pleaded. “They were deriding those of lower rank. I meant no insult. I only told them that given the choice of the meanness of your rank and the prosperity of theirs, I would claim yours a thousand times over.”

“And yet,” she murmured, touching his chin, “am I dirt?”

“What are diamonds if not dirt pressed by life and hardship to magnificence?” he said, looking up imploringly at her. “Love, you married an old fool. You know that.”

She bent over hip, dripping on his shirt and his breeches. “I know,” she whispered, kissing his lips so softly that he didn’t have a chance to claim more. “But you seem to forget from time to time.” She stepped back. “Perhaps a night in a chair would remind you…”

His eyes widened in dismay. “Belle, no.”

“The chair,” she murmured, “or another room. You… distressed me, Jamie, and now, I am growing cold. Chair or another room?”

He lowered his head penitently. “Chair,” he said quietly. “I will not leave you when you are distressed, even if I am the cause.”

Belle’s smile was brief, but she knelt and loosened his wrists. “Dry me,” she said, rising once he was free. “I would sleep.”

Jamie nodded, fetching the broad sheet of cloth from her chair. Though she knew he hungered for her, he touched her with reverence, every brush of the cloth chaste and gentle, and when she was dried from head to toe, he stepped back.

She took the sheet from his hand and led him to the bed. Wordlessly, he helped her into her nightdress, then sat beside her to unpin her hair, each dark strand uncurling between his fingers, but he didn’t touch her bare skin with his hands. 

“Sleep, love,” he said quietly, rising.

She caught his wrist and looked up at him. “Sleep with me, Jamie,” she said. “I might be cold again.”

“You would have me?” he said, uncertain. “Even now?”

She the soft flesh of his inner wrist tenderly. “I am still your wife,” she said. “Only, accord me some consideration when you play the drunken buffoon.”

He turned his hand, catching hers and lifted it to his lips. “Always, your Grace,” he whispered against her knuckles. 

She pushed back the sheets and blankets. “Get changed, you silly man,” she said. “I need you to warm my feet.”

The smile that broke across his face was so full of love that her breath caught.

“I cannot have my lady’s feet cold,” he said, shooing her into the bed. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

He was as good as his word, though for a short time, he kept her at arm’s length.

Belle his her small smile against the pillow. “Did I torment you so?” she asked softly, when he finally curled against her back.

“Aye, your Grace,” he murmured. “Ever so.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder through her nightgown. “Speak to me of ills, first? Then it will not be such torture.”

“Indeed?”

He nuzzled her shoulder. “You looked glorious. I felt wicked to desire you so much, when you wished me to be punished.” Belle hid her blush in her hands, and he husband smiled against her throat. “I love you, my dearest Grace.”

“And I you,” she whispered. “My silly fool.”


	4. Bound

The ball had been quite lovely. Quite lovely indeed. 

There had been dancing and the wine had been sweeter than usual, much more pleasant. It was rare for Belle to partake of quite so much, but it was a better vintage, and so, she had drunk a little more than she intended.

That, perhaps, was why much of the coach ride home was spent lazily kissing her husband, with not a care in the world that she had hiked her skirts indecently above her knees, and his one of his arms was about her waist, while the hand of the other toyed with her garter.

Had her balance been better, and the ride more steady, she might have lifted her skirts higher still in invitation. After all, what cause had she to be ashamed of herself? She was with her husband in their carriage and they could do as they pleased.

She was delightfully warm and drowsy when they came to a halt before their townhouse, and Jamie was gallant enough to rearrange her skirts for her, though she was quite warmed to note that his fingers were bright with moisture. He had found his own entertainments, and in turn, entertained her for much of the journey.

“Shall we?” he murmured, that wicked tilt of his lips making her tremble greedily for what lay ahead.

The chill of the air brought fresh vigour to her, and she allowed her husband to guide her, admiring the haste with which he ascended the staircase. Henry’s lips were compressed in an amused smile as they rushed up the stairs.

Idly, she wondered if a Lady should be so wanton, but then, she recalled she was married to the Duke of Rutherglen who was known to be a cad, a bounder, and utterly sinful. It was quite useful that he maintained such a reputation. It saved such a lot of fuss. 

He had the doors open and she followed, turning to close them, only to be spun about and pressed back against the polished panels of wood. Her husband’s kiss could be most insistent, and she moaned softly into his lips as he dragged her skirts up, up, up.

One hand sought her secret places, and she shuddered with pleasure as his fingers teased her, finding her still wet and eager for him.

“Will you have me, your Grace?” he breathed, his eyes shining with love and want and that slow-burning hunger that had been stoked to a blaze by hours surrounded by the press of others, unable to be alone.

She loved the dear, foolish man. She loved him with every part of her.

She caught his cravat, tugging it free, for her Grace was a lady who liked to have charge, but this night…

This night was to be his.

She held out the cravat to him, trailing from her fingertips. “Do as you will,” she whispered. “I am yours.”

She could all but hear his heart beating in the stillness.

“Belle…” he whispered. “Belle… that?”

Years of marriage and yet, still he feared to do her harm.

“You asked once,” she murmured. “This night is yours, Jamie.” She met his eyes and smiled knowingly. “Your Grace.”

She was pressed back to the door, and the cravat fell from her hands as she held him fast, his kisses wanton and hungry and adoring. He swept her up in his arms, barely breaking from her to catch his breath and laid her gently down upon the bed, kneeling over her.

“Truly?” he whispered.

In wordless reply, Belle offered him her hands, crossing them at the wrist.

He gazed at her with such devotion that she trembled.

“No,” he murmured. “Let me…”

Between tender kisses and caresses, he worked upon her gown, removing panels and bindings until she could breath deep. The dress fell away beneath her and his fingers were a tangle of pale and silken golden ribbons. He caught her hand, lifting it to his lips, then kissed the soft flesh of her wrist, and then, then he twined a loop of ribbon so gently about her wrist that she scarce felt it.

“Lift your arm, Belle,” he whispered, his lips grazing hers once more.

She did so, watching him as raptly, as the ribbon unfurled twining about the carved head of the bed. It was strange that it should have terrified her to be bound, yet he looked breathless, wonderingly, as he drew her arm taut, and that in turn made her heart race.

He looked askance at her, and when he seemed to hesitate, she smiled and offered the other wrist. The sound he made was close to rapture and he kissed each finger, her palm, the heel of her small hand, her wrist, and delicately, lovingly, bound it too. Each brush of the ribbon across her skin made her shiver, and she bit her lip as her second arm was drawn above her head.

He was kneeling over her, his knees upon either side of her hips, and she could see the hunger in his eyes as he looked down over her.

“Your Grace,” she breathed tensing her arms and drawing the ribbons just tight enough not to cut into her flesh. Her body arched beneath his, the way she knew he could not help but notice, and all at once, he was kissing her again.

His hands trembled in her hair, and his thumbs grazed her cheeks. “What would you have me do?” he whispered. “Belle, what do you want?”

There was little enough between them, her clothing reduced to fine fabric of her chemise and his breeches doing little to hide his need. She tilted her head to one side, baring her throat.

“Mark me,” she whispered. “Let the world know I am yours.”

It had been a long time, not since the first days of their marriage, but the stinging bite upon her throat, delicious, intense, claiming, made her cry out and shudder beneath him. She had not known how much she missed it.

He lapped gently at the mark, worried it with his teeth, one of his hands brushing her side, the other caressing her upstretched arm. “May I have you, Belle?” he whispered. 

“As you will, Jamie,” she replied, barely a breath. “Whatever you will this night.”

His breath was warm, gusting against the damp skin of her throat, and he pressed a kiss to the very corner of her jaw, teeth dragging gently, his lips trembling. “Close your eyes,” he whispered so very softly.

Belle smiled and complied, shivering pleasantly as the silken sash of her gown was drawn over her closed eyelids. He bound it there with such tenderness that it felt like barely a breath against her skin.

“At your mercy?” she teased.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, leaning over her enough that his lips brushed hers. 

Abruptly, he moved and she only knew he was still upon the bed from the way the mattress shifted beneath his weight. She felt him rise, and could all but feel his eyes searing across her half-bared body. 

It made her flush with pleasure, and she bit upon her lower lip as she felt his fingertips brush her foot through the fine fabric of her stocking. Her toes curled delightfully, and Jamie’s hand moved, grazing upwards until his fingers curved about her calf, behind her knee.

The bed shifted so slightly and she felt his warmth as he bent close. His hand drew her knee up and she gasped out loud when his lips skimmed the bare flesh above the garter of her stocking. 

“I would have you bare, my Lady,” he breathed, his breath so hot on her skin that she near bit her lip to messes. She could feel his fingers unfurling the stocking, tugging at the ribbon of her garter. “I would look upon you.”

Belle giggled breathlessly, feeling drunk on adoration and sweet wine, even if she could not see his face. She drew up her other foot in a show of utter shamelessness, her shift sliding down her thighs, and Jamie’s fingers tightened suddenly on her leg.

“Then look,” she challenged, pressing her feet against the bedding. 

“God above, Belle!” he exploded. “You tease!”

She couldn’t help laughing. “You desired, your Grace,” she said impishly. “Now take.”

She half-expected him to almost leap upon her and devour her whole, but he did no such thing. His attention returned to her garter, and though his hands seemed steady, she could feel and hear the rapid gusting of his breath.

It was strangely thrilling to know he was there, yet not know what he intended, and as he rolled her stocking down her leg inch by unbearable inch, she could feel her anticipation and eagerness rising. 

A fingertip beneath her heel lifted her foot and Jamie kissed the tips of her toes in turn, then lavished kisses along the arch of her foot, up to her shin, rubbing his cheek against her flesh, his breath as warm as his lips, earning small shivering gasps from her. 

There was an intentness to his touch, as his lips moved higher and higher still, until her knee was all but upon his shoulder. His other hand was not remaining still either. Her other garter came loose beneath his attentions, and his fingers curled, dragging the other stocking down.

Belle squirmed demandingly, his intentions delicious, but not where she wanted them best, and he knew it well. His teeth grazed upon her thigh, and she whined softly, tugging as her ribbon-bonds, arching her back, begging as much as she might without saying a word.

His hands slid down both her thighs, dragging the soft fabric of her shift to pool across her belly, and she bit hard upon her lip as she felt him lower himself, felt his breath warming across her secret places. Without waiting askance, she draped her other leg upon his shoulder and the tiny exhalation she received in response made her quiver.

His arms curved about her hips, his hands sinking into the fabric of her shift and pulling it up, aside, out of his way, and she cried out, sharp and shrill, as he pressed his mouth to her in the most intimate of kisses. She could not have stopped her thighs from closing about his head, even had she wished to, and her hands groped blindly at the ribbons binding her, as his tongue teased her.

One of his hands smoothed across her belly, stroking beneath her shift, and she felt the ruffles of his shirt cuff press against her hip as his other hand delved between her thighs, drawing her pleasure forth with his fingertips as well as his mouth.

Belle shivered and squirmed against his mouth, her hips twitching wantonly against him as he licked and lapped and his fingers stroked and flickered upon her sensitised skin. She could scarce draw breath to cry out, even when the hand beneath her shift cupped her breast, a teasing pinch sending fresh sparks through her. 

“Jamie!” she gasped out. “By God, Jamie, please…”

She could barely tell if he moved, but all at once, his hand pressed closer, and her body thrashed as two fingers sunk with in her and her limbs drew tight about him, shudder after shudder tearing through her.

It felt like all of her mind was spent, and small, pleasant shivers rippled through every inch of her tingling body as he continued to gently lap at her. There was no intent now, only enjoying her pleasure, licks alternated with small kisses and gentle nibbles.

“J-Jamie,” she whispered hoarsely. “Let me see you.”

She felt his smile upon her inner thigh, before he drew her legs apart. She must have quite smothered him, she thought distantly, for he had be closed up tight as a pearl in an oyster between her thighs.

His body slid up over hers, still indecently overdressed, until the swell of his breeches rested against her still-throbbing sex. With one hand braced upon the pillow beside her head, the other drew away the blindfold, and he looked down at her, his eyes ablaze with desire.

She could she traces of her own desire smeared upon his chin and arched her neck to him, pleading wordlessly for a kiss, which he granted. It was sinful to taste herself upon him, but delightful at once, and as he thrust his tongue against hers, he rocked his hips to her, rekindling a still glowing flame.

He did not need invitation, but she offered it all the same, lifting her boneless limbs to wrap about him, her own quivering hips pressing to him.

He broke from their kiss, gasping hoarsely.

“Lud, Belle,” he groaned. “You would have me undone.”

“I would have you,” she panted. “Please.”

Had her hands been free, she would have reached between them and loosed his breeches, but she could not, as much as she tugged and squirmed against the ribbons, and she looked up at him imploringly, the press of him wonderful, but not enough, never enough.

He was looking at her, leaning over her, with such heat in his eyes, she was sure she would burn up and become a cinder, as he reached down and loosed his breeches, dragging his shirt aside and closing his hand about himself. He knew her as well as she knew her own body, and he had no need to look down as he guided himself to her warmth. 

Their eyes were locked, sure as steel, and she neither closed them not looked away, even as a keening whine slid from her throat as he sank himself within her until there was not even a whisper of air betwixt them. She was trembling like a leaf in a wind, breathless and quivering.

He did not move, not yet, only watching her, rapt, awed, hungry for her.

His hand slipped up her side, over her ribs, up her arm to tangle his fingers with hers in the ribbon, and only then did he move. Her body already abuzz with fire, Belle cried out as one possessed, grasping his hand in hers and arching to him, and all restraint he had left shattered like glass.

He fell upon her, their bodies crashing together like the surf upon the shore. Her legs tightened about him, burying him deeper and deeper still, as he drove hard, mercilessly against her. She might have cried. He might also. She did not know. His eyes were on hers and they were watching one another with each ragged sobbing breath, and his hand was as tight around hers as hers was upon his.

She was his, she knew, as she always had been, and he was hers.

His pace quickened and she knew soon, too soon, he would be spent.

She looked away from him then, heard his breath stutter, but did not look back. 

Instead, she turned her head to one side and bared the smooth, pale, unmarred, unmarked column of her throat in wordless invitation, and when his mouth latched onto her with a greedy hunger, when the blood pulsed with such savage and sudden force, when she cried out and her legs tightened about him to the point of pain, she heard him cry out into her flesh, shuddering and quivering and hers all over again.

They crumpled together, boneless, breathless, spent.

He tilted his weight from her, half sprawling upon one side of her body, both of them sodden with sweat, and as their breathing evened out little by little, she forced her eyes open once more, watching him as he tugged at the ribbons about her wrist. They seemed to have quite befuddled his lust-addled brain, and he frowned drowsily.

“It is well,” she whispered. “They do no harm.”

“Mm.” He continued to tug at them, then huffed, and drew out his small blade from whence she knew not where. She giggled sleepily as the offending ribbons were severed neatly and her hands sagged down against the pillows.

“You will have to buy me new ribbons,” she murmured, as he tossed the knife from the bed, and draped himself more comfortably around her.

He nuzzled his face into her throat, lapping at the freshest mark he had granted her. “Mm.”

Her trembling fingers settled upon his hair. “Happy?”

He nodded, licking the bite again tenderly.

She stroked his hair gently, fondly. “Good,” she whispered, holding him close. “But next time, no knife in the bed.”

She heard the sleepiest of grumbles, before he buried his face in her throat against and his breathing slowly evened out. She tilted her head, resting her cheek against his hair. “Good night, Jamie,” she whispered.


	5. Decorum

She told him to wait outside of the room, but she didn't tell him to close the door.

Naturally, Jamie applied his eye to the gap between the doors with a childish eagerness. His wife could be quite graceless from time to time, and he had to be sure she wasn't harmed if she tripped or fell or any such thing.

She knew, too.

He could tell from the way she canted her head, glancing back over her shoulder.

She had her back to him, and he watched her hands move to the laces of the back of her dress. It had seemed a simple gown, and now, he could see why, as one, then another strand was drawn loose. It was a summer gown. Fine muslin. Left little to the imagination. But with the back gaping now, his imagination was quite running away with him. 

Jamie swallowed hard, wrapping his hands around the cold brass handles of the door to keep himself from reaching for his breeches. Or for her. She'd been very particular about when he would be allowed to enter. 

With the ribbon caught in the last two eyelets, Belle started twisting her fingers slowly, twining the long ribbon around them and gradually drawing it free of the eyes, the very top of her dress gaping open as it slid free. She extended her hand and the ribbon trickled between her fingers, spilling to the floor.

He watched with bated breath as she slipped her hands up to her shoulders, and for a tantalising moment, he thought she might simply pull the gown off, her fingers curling into the ruched shoulders. As if she had heard his very thought, her fingers lingered for a moment, then drew away.

Jamie stifled a groan, then redoubled it when - instead, she drew up her skirt, first to ankle, then to shin, and bent to unlace her pretty little shoes. She seemed to dwell on it for far longer than was necessary, removing each slipper and setting them aside. His breath caught as she dragged her skirts higher, lifting one stockinged foot to rest upon her trousseau. 

Still her skirts rose, until they gathered in pale folds at the top of her thigh.

Her delicate fingers unlaced the ribbon holding her stocking in place, and little by little, she bare the pale flesh of her thighs. Her skin was milky-fair, untouched by the sun, and she splayed her fingers as she pushed the stocking down, her fingers leaving softly ruddy trails that lingered only a moment.

Jamie's palms ached on the door handle. He wanted to enter, to press his lips to those fair thighs, to leave ruddy marks that would linger a little longer with teeth and lips. He wanted to hike up her skirts and take her there. He wanted to let her feel what she was doing to him. Her fingers trailed back up and he whined low in his throat as they disappeared briefly beneath the fabric of her skirts.

"Belle," he whispered pleadingly.

She wouldn't listen, he knew. Not until she was ready.

Her other stocking followed, and as she bent to lay them upon the bedding, one shoulder of her dress slipped off. She clutched it to her bosom in a show of feigned modesty that made his cock tense. She wasn't an innocent little thing, his wife, not anymore, but by God, he loved it when she played the part. 

She glanced over her still-covered shoulder, the shrugged just enough to let the fabric slip. Her dress was gaping now and her modest shift beneath was so thin it was damned well verging on transparent. 

Jamie took a quivering breath, releasing the door hand with his left hand and loosening the buttons of his breeches to slip his hand within. It wasn't to pleasure himself. Heaven knew what trouble he would get in for that. No. No. It was to hold himself in readiness for his lady. This was her game, and he knew the price of losing.

He wrapped a hand about the base of himself, wincing. It was tempting, so very tempting, to stroke himself, but no. 

Belle would call him, soon, and he knew it was better to wait.

His teeth sank into his lower lip and he tried to breathe as she let the dress slip down. It caught briefly, on breast and hip, but then fell, soft and gone and forgotten, leaving her in the shift that concealed little, framed against the soft light of the fire. 

She bent at the waist to gather up the dress and the shift drew up the backs of her legs immodestly. He wanted to go to his knee and kiss the curve of her calf, then push the shift upwards and follow with his lips the back of her thigh, the plump swell of her buttock.

Jamie groaned, uncaring if she heard him, and knew the moment that she had, for gleaming blue eyes slanted towards the door, and he saw her teeth catch her lower lip. He dress was tossed aside, forgotten, and she lifted her arms, which in turned, drew up the shift, to unpin her hair.

With each coil that unfurled, tumbling down her back, he tightened his hand just enough. His breath was coming quick and hot, and by the time she was done, his prick was throbbing against his palm, and his head felt light. 

She turned to face the door, shaking her hair about her shoulders, and she met his eyes as she unlaced the loose ribbon at the front of her shift. It hung wide, and she took one step back, then another, sinking to sit on the edge of the trousseau. 

Sometimes, she would tease him with the implication of what she might do, but she seldom touched herself to please him. Now, though, knowing he watched, knowing he desired her, and knowing he had often wished to see her do so, she dragged up the hem of her shift, over her knees and up her thighs, splaying her bare toes on the floor and spreading her knees. 

“Christ,” Jamie panted out, his hand trembling around him, as she spread both palms on her thighs and slid them downwards, between her legs. 

There wasn’t enough light for him to see every part of her, but he heard her breath catch as her pale fingers were lost in the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. Her other hand moved up, trembling, and pushed down the collar of her shift, her fingers curving over her breast, drawing it out.

“God, Belle,” he whispered, half-leaning against the door.

She leaned back against one of the curtain-lined posts, her hips sliding forward, and a small, wanting sound escaped her as she moved her fingers. She wasn’t just touching lightly, he could see now. His cock throbbed painfully as he saw the fingers slipping in and out of her, slick and wet.

He tore his hand away from the handle, bracing his hand around the edge of the door instead, and pressed his mouth to his forearm, biting down on his shirtsleeve, his breath coming thick and fast as she whimpered and squirmed against her own hand.

Her eyes found his, across the space between them, and her parted lips turned up in a gasping smile. She nodded, just once, and it was enough,

His steps were stumbling, graceless, and he crashed to his knees, before her, drawing her knees up over his shoulders, his hands around her thighs, and burying his mouth against her sex. Her slick fingers brushed his cheek, hot and wet and ripe with the scent of her, and she keened, falling back against the bed, as his tongue plunged against her, licking greedily. Her heels nudged against his shoulders and her hips jerked against his mouth.

“You, Jamie,” she gasped out. “Now.”

He could never refuse her, and his body was hot for her. He surged up, bracing one hand on the bed beside her, and his other hand pushed his breeches down, out of the way. He caught her hip, holding her, and sought her eyes.

“Belle?”

She looked up at him, eyes smoky with want and reached up with her slick hand to pull his mouth down on his as he thrust his cock into her. He swallowed the low cry, and his fingers clenched against bedding and flesh as she tightened her limbs about him.

It took scarce three savage thrusts for him to end himself, but he would not have her wanting, while he was spent and he slid free, crumpling to his knees and put his mouth to her again, uncaring of his own seed upon his tongue, and lapped and lapped, between quivering gasping breaths, sinking a finger then another into her, and sucking on the throbbing bud at the apex of her sex, until she gave a soft shuddering cry of pleasure. 

Even so, he continued to lick, gently, tenderly, drawing out every little ebb of pleasure for her, and he heard her soft sighs, and felt her fingers card through his hair.

“Good,” she whispered. “That’s good.” She tugged gently on his hair, drawing him up little by little, and with each inch, he left a small love mark on her skin, tender, playful, until he reached her lips. 

Belle rubbed the tip of her nose against his. “Well,” she murmured, “you held yourself with remarkable decorum.”

He licked her top lip gently. “I told you I would for you, love,” he murmured. 

“I doubt I could do the same,” she murmured, putting her arms around him.

He looked down at her with a small, contented smile. “Why would I want you to?” he asked.

Belle giggled. “Help me to bed, husband?”

He kissed her again, gently. “Yes, your Grace.”


End file.
